


Camera Roll

by abominable



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Sexy Sacrilege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abominable/pseuds/abominable
Summary: Arthas is growing distant from his studies, Uther wants to know why. They argue about it, as they always do.
Relationships: Uther the Lightbringer/Arthas Menethil
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Camera Roll

**Author's Note:**

> listen im not a writer i just have some really cool friends who let let me in on a prompt challenge and i dont hate the result so. thank u to my extremely talented buddies.
> 
> content warnings, mentor/mentee, age gap, vouyerism/exhibitionism, modern au that deals with both parties being in the same congregation so cw christianity, cw sacrilege and also cw lazy writing.
> 
> im dumb as fuck, i have one braincell and it's "uther's really hot", don't expect things like problem solving and critical thinking out of me.

"I get it." Arthas snaps, his furrowed expression portraying everything but understanding. It is not an unfamiliar scene, truth be told, but every time it unfolds it feels as frustrating, upsetting, _unprecedented_ as the first. Arthas was a good man-or so Uther labored to convince himself. He was not so purposefully disobedient or disrespectful, he was just young, he was just arrogant. He was prideful to a fault, but in confidential moments, his pride gave way to murmured admissions that he wanted to be better, that he was so thankful that Uther was so willing to guide him.

Uther never knew what to say when they whispered, though. It was a tense pat of the back at most, a mumbled assurance that his faith in Arthas' ability to improve was unwavering. It was hard to whisper to him-so perhaps that is why it was so easy to scream.

They could not yell as they might have in the car or the foyer of the Menethil home, as the other congregants would surely hear their bickering were it exchanged in anything more than hisses, but it _feels_ like yelling, and that makes it easy. They had argued here, before-the men's room in the opposite wing of the church to the library, and it all shouldn't have been novel, considering they both just intrinsically knew the threshold of the acceptable volume for this argument, but perhaps it had been Uther's decision to grab Arthas by the collar and drag him when the young man had dallied, or perhaps simply a manner of the sheer gall Arthas had on display today-whatever it was, things were different today. Frustrating enough, _intense_ enough that Uther longed to damn-it-all and yell as loud he itched to. It was a frustratingly flawed, obliquely human impulse to make Arthas understand him, stop sneering, _stop fucking texting during bible study._

Uther hears his jaw click, realizing only then how tense he has it held, how screwed up with fury his expression must be. Arthas, it would seem, is on a similar page, his eerie habit of knowing Uther better than he did, himself. He baits him-his winter eyes that had remained in stubbornly unblinking contact with Uther’s now faltered, first glancing down in a way that might have been thoughtful before taking to the wide mirror set above the sinks just to his right, Uther’s left. It is impulse to follow Arthas’ eyes, to take his bait. They were in a spat, after all and if Arthas was presumably going to try to ignore him, what was Uther to do but follow, find fury in whatever Arthas labored to distract himself in? But following his gaze leaves Uther staring at himself, red-faced and white-knuckled, his hands still clutched in Arthas’ shirt collar where he holds the younger man back against the paper towel dispenser. Arthas, when Uther’s eyes register him, does not look so much uncomfortable pressed against the obtrusive thing as he does… Smug? Bored? _Both?_

Uther’s guts tighten up in a way he _hates,_ the redness of anger indistinguishable for the flush of shame that comes over him now. Slow, cautious, his hands release Arthas-a movement that allows young Menethil to settle back on his heels-had _Uther truly held him on tip-toe_? For how long? The shame darkens and all he can do is step away, press his fingers to his eyes and count his anger until it subsides. His voice comes, straining with patience he does not truly have the resource to give,

“No you don’t. We will talk about this later-“

“Of course we will.”

An already-renewed flare of fury, but it’s impotent in the face of embarrassment, “Watch your tone-“ Uther hisses, stepping back, angling so he cannot see his own pitifully angry reflection. He wishes Arthas would do the same, but the boy idles where he is, leaning lazily where he’d moments ago been pinned, eyes still focused on the mirror. It’s humiliating in a way Uther cannot describe-like his anger leaves him unworthy of being perceived directly, his outbursts and frustration are so bothersome that Arthas cannot be troubled to look them in the eye. His words so much as confirm that, with the haughty way Menethil retorts,

“Watch my tone? I’m not the one having an aneurysm over a little texting.”

Uther’s jaw hurts.

“I am not having an-... You have no concept of dis-“

“Discipline.” Arthas cadences in, sighing in a way that makes his violence-tousled hair tremble around his pale face. Uther feels he could scream, he knows they’re getting nowhere.

“Put it away until the class is over,” He commands, his tone, by some miracle, a steady whisper, “It’s not difficult, I don’t want to see it out again.”

“Fine.” The boy replies, still unmoving, still unaffected. They stand there for a moment, Arthas’ hand inevitably drifting to his pocket to handle the outline of his phone, though he does not pull it out. _Desperate_ for victory, Uther takes it as a positive sign and he steps back, turning fully away from Arthas and towards the door. He ought to wash up, take cold water to the ugly flush in his face, but more than anything he found the concept of baring that weakness to Arthas, that confirming he needed to calm down over an argument so insignificant, was simply not one he could face.

“Take a moment, I will see you back after that.” And he swears he can feel Arthas smiling, delighting in the irony of being allowed time to calm down by the only party upset by the exchange.

Uther does his best to look unfettered by the time he returns to the library. He catches a dull reflection in a narrow strip of wired glass on the door of one of the class rooms on the way back. He uses the opportunity to wipe his brow, unstick his patchy bangs from it. He doesn’t look presentable, but his frustration with his charge is no stranger to those who know him, at worst Father Faol will pull him aside later. _Humiliating_. But he finds his assumption strikes true, there is no comment from the chatting gaggle of congregants along the board table set in the center of the room. They stir their coffees and don’t even look up when Uther returns. Another stray few return after, people who had taken the break in the closer bathroom, or perhaps gone outside to chat. A few of them still check their phones, and Uther knows he doesn’t bristle at _them_ for it.

In time, perhaps too much time, Arthas returns. His long, too-blonde hair is disheveled, but at least his collar is fixed. He smiles pleasantly, greeting whomever it is that greets him. He has a casual, even cheery air to him, his grins are lazy and handsome and he had neglected to roll his sleeves down from the tuck he had set his cuffs in from, presumably, washing his hands after Uther had left him.

But most essentially he sets his phone face down on his planner before he sits. A victory that will surely not last long-it never does.

The study continues after, but just as before the break, Uther finds he struggles to focus on Father Faol’s thoughts and he contributes little to the discussion. As before, he is quickly distracted by Arthas, who reclines back in the desk chair and crosses his legs and _lounges_. He makes an effort to _appear_ as if he listens, but Uther does not miss how his fingers drum atop his herringbone slacks, how they itch to pinch at the fabric on his own thigh for want of anything to entertain him. He ought to pay attention-both of them ought to. _It didn’t used to be like this._

In the end it’s Uther that gets caught-no, _trapped_. He picks at the edge of his bookmark, no longer looking at his ward (breaking his gaze having had been so small effort to undergo) but certainly _stewing_ on him deep enough to miss the pause that comes after a question, and when he does register the silence and the stale, awkward way the air hangs in it, he knows _he_ had specifically been addressed.

He swallows, and begs a, “Pardon. I was lost in thought, what was the question?”

Alonsus’ face falls, a worried line setting between his sand-and-salt brows, “You had thoughts on that last passage, on the Confidence of Flesh, Uther?”

Ah, and he’d lost track. Faol does not pause further, instead elaborating, “Arthas indicated you had taken a greater understanding and that the passage… At any rate...” Alonsus is not old enough to have a tremor, so the way his hands jitter when he shuffles his papers tells of weary nervousness, perhaps even frustration, maybe the same frustration Uther has for Arthas, though he doubts that. Faol continues on, doing well to iron out the crease Uther’s falter had left. Uther wishes it had worked, being called on like a misbehaving schoolboy, yet all he finds is renewed anger, renewed _fixation_ , as he glowers across the table to Arthas, who smiles like a devil as he makes a point to pick up his phone and check the notifications.

It was good Alonsus had not lingered-in that moment it was as if Uther had never so much as heard the name Philippians before. Time moves disorientingly quickly after that, in the time it takes Uther to open his cahier and jot something- _anything_ -of substance down the room had already begun to adjourn. He truly had lost himself to his fury, hadn’t he? Father Faol gives him a look that assures Uther that they will in fact be speaking, but the Priest takes to Arthas first. There might have been comfort in that, that Arthas’ arrogance is more worrisome to Alonsus, yet that comfort doesn’t come. Uther steps from the library and lingers near the offices-and it truly _is_ as if he’s in boarding school again, yet he is merely a presumably well-adjusted man in his fifties awaiting a lecture like he had just been in a schoolyard brawl.

It couldn’t keep happening, he knew that. In proper solitude, Uther had the presence of mind to face it without that all-consuming anger, envy, _fear_. Fear of a fraying friendship, fear that he had failed as a mentor or role model or whatever he was. Fear of something unknowable, something no amount of contemplation could name. Fear of a thrumming beat in his guts. He knew it to be close to the fear of loss, but the details beyond that never solidified beyond taunting vapor. When the library doors open, Arthas is unfettered, smiling as he gives his good-bye to Father Faol, but this time Arthas misses Uther’s eye, looks to the calendar on one side of him and the lamp on the other, his eyes skating over him like he’s just the white of the wall.

It is an action moving enough to push Uther to allude the fear to Faol when they speak, but not enough to confess. They pray together, pray for Uther to find his patience and overcome this anger that nettles him, and for the majority of their conversation Uther feels focused and thoughtful. When encouraged to approach his charge about his frustrations _calmly_ , Uther even dares to feel hopeful that he may manage it. It is only as the exchange ends that his thoughts waver, as the jostle with a great bump in the road-Arthas’ phone still sits face-down atop his schedule book, a long-cold cup of coffee beside it.

After everything he had fucking _forgotten_ it?

Uther thanks God he can think an inch more clearly without the boy in his immediate presence. His voice does not waver as he bids Father Faol farewell and offers to lock up the library, yet when he tosses the cup and takes up the forgotten objects, Uther finds his knuckles still whiten. A prayer for patience unanswered. He will drop it off, and perhaps after the drive Uther will have the presence of mind to go on and speak to Arthas _proper_. That phantom nags at him as he crosses the parking lot to his truck, the unknowable vapor of fury-fear-doubt. Maybe he will take the scenic route, make certain he calms down.

His driver’s door creaks as it always does and Uther all but tosses the book and phone into the passenger’s seat. It ought to have stayed there, but as he sets his keys in the ignition a swatch of luminescence catches his eye, tempts his patience and focus _yet again_. He glances at it-the device had been flipped onto its back when he had discarded it, and now the lock screen stares him down-a photograph of some café near the Dalaran University campus stretched behind the smiling visage of Miss Proudmoore, whom Arthas had not been seeing in _months_. The digital clock superimposed on her ticks past five, but it is the text below that begs him to disobey.

_Swipe to Open_.

He waits so long that the screen fades to black, and thrice more as Uther finds he taps the screen to reilluminate it. It eats at his brain, the devilish, even evil temptation to _know_. What was it that had kept Arthas so distracted, that had brought Uther his righteous fury? He swallows hard, and hearing Faol’s sedan start across the lot is the only thing that has him realize he must have stalled for the greater part of a quarter-hour. His own absurdity cannot be overlooked, and it’s _just a phone_ , so he picks it up- _Arthas will never know_. Uther slides a fingertip across the screen, catching the edge of the lock screen and inadvertently pulling open the moving image of his own face.

“Dammit.” He breathes-its the same mistake he makes on his own phone, opening the camera like that. He is unsuccessful in returning it to the lock screen, no amount of tapping around brings him back, so Uther thumbs the button on the side to reset-and it is then that it catches his eye.

Crammed in the bottom left corner of the screen in a tiny, near-indistinguishable square is an image, presumably the most recent added to the phone. Uther brings the screen closer, his pulse quickening with the realization of what it seems to be-the soap dispenser, the tile wall-the back of his own head? Feeling the dizziness that comes with adrenaline, Uther taps the square, and he is prompted with a request for the passcode. Jaina’s birthday does not work, but Arthas’ PIN from his debit card does-2641.

There it is, the square now pulled to a screen-tall rectangle-it _is_ the washroom they had argued in, and that most certainly is the back of his sweater, a patch of white he always forgets he has near the base of his skull. He’s a bit blurred, obviously in motion, and the edges of the soap dispenser are distorted from movement as well-these details and the circle that cradles a right-facing triangle in the center of the screen indicate it’s a _video_.

He cannot pretend he hesitates as long the second time, there is a strange pounding in his ears and a tremble in his blood that disorients him and Uther is certain the only cure is to know. He _has _to know.__

__With a tremble like he’s gone glycemic, the glass _thunks_ heavily when he taps play._ _

__“-after that.” Comes his own voice from the little rectangle in his hand. Uther is walking away, only in frame for a second before he disappears from the room-his hands are balled and his ears are red, and the camera lingers after him for just a second longer before following a languid arc across the mirror, to Arthas’ own reflection, which does, in fact, smile. He leans where Uther left him, still against the uncomfortable jut of the towel holder. He pushes some of his lank hair back, then smoothes his hand over his shirt, a motion that doesn’t make much sense. The next few movements are just as baffling-Arthas’ focus breaks from his videotaping so that he may unhook his cuff buttons with his own teeth, pulls his sleeve up his sturdy forearm with the finesse of a dog yanking around a dirty old toy._ _

__Uther doesn’t understand. For a moment, a cold drop of fear had taken him-that Arthas was recording evidence of some manner, that Uther had hurt him, that his anger had gone a step too far. But Arthas doesn’t say anything, doesn’t expose his neck to reveal marks from being pulled or make a fuss of the dispenser he had been cornered against. No, his hand and now-exposed forearm return to his chest and his fingers splay there, partially obscured by the branch of his other arm as it continues to film. Uther has the thing nearly to his nose at this point, mouthes a quiet ‘What?’ to no-one while he watches the camera’s point of view break from the mirror, now against Arthas’ chest and pointing down at his _shoes_? What is Uther missing, what on Earth is-_ _

__Arthas grabs at his own crotch with a shuddering gasp and Uther drops the phone. It is the longest moment of his goddamn life, grasping blindly around the floor board trying to retrieve wherever the thing is as the noise of a zipper, of Arthas sighing and then groaning and then _moaning_ fills the cabin of his car. After an eternity, Uther fishes it out from where fate had cruelly thrown it under his seat, and with its return he is greeted with a screenful of long, pink _cock_ , hot and pulsing under the pale fingers that eagerly pump it. Uther shuts off the screen, the car deafeningly quiet after Arthas’ shaking breaths are abruptly cut short._ _

__Uther puts the thing on his dash and drags his hands over his own face, feeling it once more burning-hot under his trembling fingers. It was a video of Arthas masturbating. Arthas had taken a video of himself masturbating. Arthas had masturbated in the church restroom- _Arthas had masturbated in the church_! Arthas had--! Uther is horrified, which is why he picks up the phone and watches it again, from the beginning-or tries to, he has to shut it off when he actually sees Arthas unzip himself, when he sees the fabric of Arthas’ briefs pulled taut and wet-through in a translucent spot where his crown has already been leaking._ _

__Attempt three, he makes it only seconds further-seeing Arthas tuck his underpants under his dick is too much and Uther sets his face against his steering wheel and forgets how to breathe. Two more attempts, _morbid curiosity_ , he watches Arthas tuck, grasp, pump-the sound of the subdued moans from his phone twin with his own shattered breath, it’s the first watch-through he makes it more than a few seconds further, he feels ravenous while he watches Arthas’ wrist twist, sees him thumb the slit of his cock, spread his own pre over the flushed head-he humps his own hand, soft ‘ _yes_ ’-es coming here and there. Uther finds the threshold of embarrassment obliterated, not only can he manage to keep the video playing, he feels cold, desperate _fear_ when the camera moves- _he’s afraid it will end_._ _

__It doesn’t, and the relief is obscene. Uther watches the camera move back to the mirror, and the bottom of his stomach drops out to see Arthas’ pale face blotched in ugly pink patches. His white-gold hair sticks to his face, to his wet, open lips and he films his own reflection as he works his cock, his eyes staring vainly on the screen the entire time. The blunt impact of his own pulse ticks in time with the quickening jerks of Arthas’ arm-he feels that pain in his core ache in perfect time with each tug he watches, and when Arthas climaxes, cupped in his own palm, Uther finds himself breathing like a man run through. He cuts it off, but the next watchthrough he learns the remaining few seconds show Arthas panting, watching himself directly in the mirror, rather than on his screen, and popping a filthy finger in his own mouth as he ends the recording._ _

__Considerations of implication are flat-out beyond Uther’s capability. Yes, _obviously_ the gravity of Arthas doing such a repugnant thing in _the chapel’s restroom_ was immense, revolting, cataclysmically troubling. It is simply that Uther cannot manage to find any part of his brain capable of focusing on that. No, not with his head so full of the dust-pale hair that trailed in a fine line from taut belly to flushed pubis, of the flutter of Arthas’ eyelashes in the mirror, of how he fucking _sounded_._ _

___Just once more_ , Uther barters with himself, a cowardly proposition made in the shadow of his steadily approaching shame, _No-one has to know_. He had committed worse sins somewhere down the line, hadn’t he? The heat in his lap flares with the thought, Uther says he will ignore it._ _

__So he thinks until he’s rubbing himself through his trousers. He handles the strained outline of his own cock through the fabric as if not touching it directly will mean he’s not now the one masturbating on consecrated ground. He thumbs the long film-roll, nudging the barely three-minute clip back to parts that make his balls tighten the hardest again and again. He must chase the high for an eternity, or so it feels. The sun’s half-set when that looming wave does finally hit, so it certainly _was_ a not-insignificant amount of time wasted. He is fixated on a part where the grin turns intense with determination-Uther can only daydream that it was the point where play became genuine pleasure, and he goes so far as to pause the clip and study it. Arthas’ shirt is pushed halfway up his belly, he’s squeezing himself vice-hard, his mouth’s a bit open and his teeth shine with saliva._ _

___He’s gorgeous like that._ _ _

__Knowing any step more, doing it again, thinking about it again- _anything_ more is beyond unforgivable (seeing as unforgivable is damn well where he's at), he leans across the cabin to extract his own phone from his glovebox. He disregards a message unopened, labeled Calia that asks if Uther has seen Arthas’ phone and opens his own photos app. He only discards both phones once the airdrop is complete, and he sees the video pop into the stray dozen or so bits of media on his device. He feels vile, sticky, and his cock hurts _unbearably_ with every tick of his still-rapid pulse, but Uther thinks he’ll flag if he takes the scenic route. _To calm down_._ _

__Awaiting the wave of shame to truly hit when he turns the key, drowning in it by the time he’s pulled into reverse. Part of his haggard soul tries to soothe him, says a _parking lot_ really isn’t the Church, but the rest of him think he’d have done nothing different if he’d knelt at the altar inside._ _

__That he’ll do no different when he’s home, and can watch it again, and maybe there he will afford himself a release he doesn’t deserve._ _

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know what pacing is and at this point i am too afraid to ask.


End file.
